“Rhythm in the water” A Warrior’s reflection

Amanda is a Built for More Warrior who had her initial experience in the all-women’s cohort in early April, 2025. Inspired by her experience and the impact the BFM program is already having on her life, she shared the following reflection that she named “Rhythm in the water”:

I didn’t know what to expect when I went to Montana. They told us we’d be fly fishing, and my first reaction was, I don’t know how to fly fish. At that point in my life, I wasn’t sure I knew how to do much of anything anymore. So many of the things I loved—things I used to rely on to feel like myself—had been taken away. After my injury, life felt like it had been hollowed out. The things that once anchored me were gone, and I was left drifting in this fog I couldn’t see through.

That’s what trauma feels like. It’s not just pain—it’s disorientation. A haze that lingers over everything. You go through the motions, but you’re never quite sure when—or if—you’re going to feel clear again.

The first time I held a fly rod, I felt awkward, like I was doing something that didn’t belong to me. My cast was clumsy, and the flies didn’t land where they were supposed to. But something about it caught my attention. Maybe it was the movement—the way you have to stay involved, constantly adjusting. Casting, mending the line, choosing the right fly. There’s nothing passive about it. It’s not about waiting. It’s about learning to read the water, learning to move with it.

And slowly, I started to understand: fly fishing isn’t just about catching fish. It’s about rhythm.

There’s rhythm in the way you cast, the way you track your line, the way you feel the current push against your legs. The fish have their own rhythm too. They don’t move by your clock. They make you slow down, pay attention. They move with the water, not against it. They’re unpredictable. You can switch flies a dozen times, and nothing happens—and then suddenly, one bites. Not because you forced it, but because the timing lined up.

Kind of like life.

Back home, my rhythm had been shattered. Every plan I had was on hold. Every certainty I thought I could count on was gone. But in that river, with the rod in my hand and the sun warming the back of my neck, I started to feel something return. I didn’t have to be fast, or perfect, or strong. I just had to show up and try. The fish didn’t care who I was or what I’d lost. They moved with the rhythm of the river—and slowly, I started moving with it too.

I caught a fish. Then another. I tied my own flies. I fumbled and learned and kept going. And somewhere in all of that, I found something I didn’t expect: joy.

Not the loud, triumphant kind. A quiet, steady kind of joy. The kind that comes from doing something with your hands, from being in the moment, from feeling connected to something beyond your own thoughts.

Now, fly fishing is more than a hobby. It’s become a part of my healing. When everything else is uncertain, the river is still there. The rhythm is still there. I’m still there.

Written by Amanda W., U.S. Army, SPC